


Suck It In

by Anonymous



Series: 'Let It Out' [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Belly Kink, Belly Rubs, M/M, Medical Play, Stuffing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-13 07:59:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2143197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘I read up on it,’ he looked John straight in the eye.  ‘There are more people who like this sort of thing than you’d imagine.’</p><p>‘Are there?’  John felt a pang of relief.  He knew, of course, that most things were fetishized.  Everything in existence, probably, if you searched for long enough on the Internet.  This, though, hadn’t even occurred to him as a source of eroticism, until Sherlock had flopped into bed last week, full of wine and pasta and looking intriguingly replete and vulnerable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Suck It In

‘Oh. God.  Oh.  Oh…. _Fuck_.’

Sherlock wasn’t much for Anglo-Saxon curse words, usually.  It wasn’t that he considered them beneath him – just that Mummy had always vaguely disapproved of them, and if he was honest, he still balked at the thought of disappointing her, regardless of whether she was listening or not.

Just now, however, he couldn’t hold it in.  He wasn’t sure whether he swore out of pain, amazement, or sheer sensory overload.

John’s solid step on the stair made him repeat the indiscretion.

‘Oh.  _Fuck_.’

The sound of the front door, and John’s steps in the hallway.  The living room door opening, and John framed in the darkness from the hallway, staring at Sherlock in disbelief, and echoing,

‘Oh.  Fuck.’

From his slouched position in his leather chair, Sherlock envisioned how he must appear to John.  Strange, at the very least.  Certainly he presented a surprising tableau.  Despite Sherlock’s natural impatience and insatiable sense of adventure, it had been eight days since the night they’d stumbled on this mutually titillating fetish, and they hadn’t spoken of it once.  Whether this was out of embarrassment, or the demands of a recent case, or simply because it hadn’t seemed quite ‘the time’, neither of them were entirely sure.  Tonight, however, Sherlock had decided to explore things a little further.  He hadn’t anticipated to find himself slightly out of his depth.

He sat with his legs spread, in nothing but his blue and white striped pyjama bottoms and a snugly-fitting grey under-t-shirt.  The elasticated waistband of the bottoms, he’d tugged down to rest just atop the root of his penis, conforming to the curve of his pubis.  The t-shirt he’d tugged upwards.  It was gathered just below his pecs.  Exposed in between the two boundaries of fabric, his belly thrust, half-proudly, half-shamefully, a great tight hemisphere of overtaxed skin.  He was gazing at it, as though he hadn’t a clue where it had come from.

It took John thirty seconds or more to rouse himself from his dazed observation, close the door behind him and approach Sherlock across the living room.

‘Wow,’ he said, and immediately felt asinine.

Sherlock let out a snort that managed at once to be haughty and self-deprecating.

John seated himself in his chair, opposite Sherlock.

‘Are you… are you… ok?’ asked John.  He was a little concerned, a little aroused.  He’d didn’t know why he’d expected some sort of conversation, some mutually agreed plan, before they’d embarked again on their exploration of this kink.  He should have known Sherlock would get carried away and sprint on ahead of him.

‘I…’  Sherlock placed his right hand ever-so gently on the side of his stomach, careful to apply no pressure.  ‘I may have… got a bit…’ his breath was laboured – each word required a great gulp of air to expel, ‘…ahead of myself.’

‘Yes,’ said John.  ‘Maybe.  What did you eat?’

He’d eaten two loaves of brown bread, a large mixing bowl of chocolate Angel Delight and four iced buns, and chased it with half a large bottle of cheap cola.

‘Bread and cola,’ he summarised and downplayed.  ‘Where’ve you been for so long?’

Now that the surprise had worn off, John was tickled a little by the situation.  It was almost endearing – sweet of Sherlock to give this a go, for the both of them.  Sweet, too, that he’d tried too hard and overdone it.  Sherlock could see, though, that John found it mildly adorable – this, he didn’t like.  It added an undercurrent of disgruntled defensiveness to his attitude.

‘Oh,’ said John, with mock surprise.  ‘You noticed I was gone, then?’

‘Of course I did,’ said Sherlock.  ‘I became aroused.  I wanted to – how do you put it, usually?  “Make love”.  You weren’t there.’

‘I was held up at the surgery.  Awkward patient.’

‘Tedious.’  Sherlock huffed – whined like a child.  ‘My tummy hurts.’

‘It’s as though I never left my office.’

‘Ha.  Hilarious.  I’ve made an effort.  The least you could do is show a little appreciation.’

‘For you having eaten a massive amount of bread?’

‘Yes,’ said Sherlock.  ‘I read up on it,’ he looked John straight in the eye.  ‘There are more people who like this sort of thing than you’d imagine.’

‘Are there?’  John felt a pang of relief.  He knew, of course, that most things were fetishized.  Everything in existence, probably, if you searched for long enough on the Internet.  This, though, hadn’t even occurred to him as a source of eroticism, until Sherlock had flopped into bed last week, full of wine and pasta and looking intriguingly replete and vulnerable.  So.  It wasn’t mainstream, perhaps.  But at least it wasn’t something they’d invented between them.

‘Yes –’  Sherlock’s intended oratory presentation on the fetish was cut short by an involuntary, guttural burp that seemed to emanate from the pit of his swollen stomach, rather than his lungs.  ‘People like it.  If you think about it…  The whole… concept of… extremity…’  He decided to leave the rest unspoken.  He wasn’t sure he had the breath to get it all out, in any case.

‘You didn’t need to do this, you know,’ said John, rather superfluously.

Sherlock looked put out at having to talk more.

‘I _know_ ,’ he said, closing his eyes briefly out of exasperation and discomfort.  ‘I was _curious_.’ 

His stomach was far more distended than he’d ever intended or envisioned, tingling with sensitivity, veined with tendrils of a crawling, straining ache.  He recalled the pleasant but bearable discomfort of last week’s fullness as John rubbed his belly in bed – this was something different.  He and John had gleefully compared his tummy to a five-month pregnant bump – it had been a titillating exaggeration.  Now, he genuinely looked pregnant.  Truly, unambiguously engorged. 

‘You’re enormous,’ said John.  He tried not to sound pitying – more curious – though he knew Sherlock would sense the undertone of amused concern.

Sherlock nodded. 

‘Sh…it,’ he considered the swear word, and then committed to it.  ‘I can’t move.  I’ll never move again.  It’s so tight I… can’t even touch it.’  He looked helplessly down at his huge belly.  ‘Why did I think this was a good idea?’

John was watching him.  Looking at the picture of determined debauchery he presented.  The slightly-misjudged, well-intentioned stab at gluttony Sherlock had made, just for him.  And he couldn’t help but find himself aroused.  Slightly, at first, and then more so, the longer he stared at Sherlock’s tummy.  Some sort of instinct came over him to soothe him.  But more than that, he was stimulated by the picture of excess Sherlock presented.  It was sexy.  It made sudden and complete sense – Sherlock pushed limits.  This, though, was one limit John had never thought Sherlock would push.  The unexpectedness of it was fantastically alluring.

‘You’re fucking gorgeous,’ exclaimed John, and Sherlock looked up from his stomach in mild surprise.

‘Really?’ he asked, genuinely curious.

‘Yeah,’ breathed John.  ‘Yeah.’  He was growing short of breath himself, now.

Something changed in the air.  Sherlock’s embarrassment began to ebb away, slightly.  He began, ever so slightly, to preen.

‘I wanted to give it another go,’ said Sherlock.  ‘Oh,’ and now, he was deliberately provocative.  ‘Oh… I’ve never been so full.’

John licked his lips.  Drew breath in through his nose, sharply.

‘Really?’

‘Uh-huh.  Oh _God._ ’

‘Hmmm.  Did you – it was… fun, the other night?  Wasn’t it?’

‘I enjoyed it.  Perhaps we could do this on Tuesdays.’

‘It’s Friday.’

‘I know.  But Tuesdays would be more convenient.  Fridays you usually get the shopping.’  He scratched lightly at an itchy patch just beneath his navel.  ‘Are you getting the shopping?’

‘You’re _hungry_?’ asked John.

‘Shut up.  No.  But I need bicarbonate of soda to sprinkle on a kidney.’

‘Of course.’

‘John.’

‘What?’

‘It hurts.’

‘You don’t say.’

‘I….’  Sherlock shifted his arse on the seat, squirming, his entire focus trained on his aching belly.  ‘…I want….’  He let out an exasperated breath.  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake.  Can’t _you_ say it?  You started it last time.  You seemed to know how to…’

‘Okay,’ said John, fondly.   His breaths were measured.  He was sinking slowly into a warm bath of arousal.  ‘Does it hurt?  Have you ever been this full?’

Sherlock sucked in a breath.

‘There was one Christmas,’ said Sherlock.  ‘When I was in my early twenties.  I ate so much I had to go upstairs and lie down for an hour.  This is worse.’

‘Yeah?  If it hurts… I could…’  A snippet of conversation from minutes earlier flashed through his memory: ‘ _Awkward patient…. It’s as though I never left my office._ ’  Well, it was obvious, wasn’t it – the way forward?  ‘Just relax, Sir.  Deep breaths.’

Sherlock was fighting back a smile.  He did breathe slowly, though.  Expanded his breaths until they were audible, sibilant whispers in the still quiet air around them.

‘How long has it been like this?’ asked John.

‘Half an hour,’ answered Sherlock, and John realised he was telling the truth rather than embellishing for the role play.

‘Would you mind if I examined you?’

‘Please, Doctor,’ said Sherlock.  ‘It hurts.’

‘I’ll get my stethoscope,’ said John.  It was in his bedroom.  No.  The desk drawer.  He left his best stethoscope at work, but his spare one was in the desk drawer – he’d tossed it in there after fixing a puncture in the pipe and forgotten about it.  He scrambled to his feet, retrieved it and returned to Sherlock.

‘It’s so big, it’s shiny,’ said John, forgetting his character for a moment.  He licked his lips.  He found he was salivating.  Did he want to _lick_ it?  Bite Sherlock’s belly like a ripe, round apple?  He was hard – fully hard – in his trousers.

‘Mmmm.’  Sherlock moved the fingers of his left hand to his navel.  Circled around it first with his middle finger.  Then felt deliberately, but carefully, inside its rim with his index finger.

‘Does that help?’

‘Mmmm.’

‘Keep doing it, then.  I’ll have a listen.’

John pressed the earbuds of the stethoscope into his ears and pressed the cold silver disc to Sherlock’s tummy, above the belly button.  Since medical school, he’d heard countless wheezing chests, magnified to near-deafening proportions, through the earpieces of stethoscopes.  He was bored of wheezing chests.  It made it all the more exciting, now, to hear the low, intimate rumble of Sherlock’s belly whispering dirty secrets.  Groans and squashes, the skitterings of tiny bubbles.  His insides squirming, operating instinctively, physically, basely.

This was the opposite of Sherlock’s mind.

In Sherlock’s great brain, things were immaculate.  Pristine and ordered.  It was full – full to capacity with facts and theories and equations – but the information was clean and catalogued.  A testament to Sherlock’s intellectual triumph over the biological.  Sherlock’s stomach was a grumbling sac of messy, organic matter.

The soft warm skin, taut over muscle and diaphragm and organ and food, against the fleshy side of John’s hand, next to the cold circle of the stethoscope, made John writhe in delight.  As did the look of the metal disc pressed to Sherlock’s tummy – the way the slight pressure bowed the tight skin so slightly, emphasising the tension pressing outwards.

John thought none of this consciously, but all of it saturated his unconscious mind and made his prick impossibly rigid.

‘Look at the size of my belly button,’ said Sherlock.  It was incredibly dilated.  The skin around the rim pulled so tight, it looked as though it might tear.

‘Ah…’ John couldn’t think what to say.

‘Look at me,’ said Sherlock.

John did look at him.  He noted everything about Sherlock.  The way the elastic of his waistband clung to the bottom curve of his swollen middle.  The way his belly was an almost perfect hemisphere, standing out from Sherlock’s lean frame like a pudding bowl.  The way it rose and fell subtly with each of Sherlock’s breaths.

‘You do this.  You rub my belly button.’

‘Yes,’ said John, aroused now beyond comprehension.  He put the stethoscope hurriedly aside, fell forward onto his knees in front of Sherlock’s chair and reached out, slipped his middle finger into Sherlock’s belly button and fondled it, gently but purposefully.

‘That feels good,’ said Sherlock.  ‘Good.’

‘Harder?’ asked John.

‘No,’ said Sherlock.  ‘No.  Gently.  Just gently.  Like that.’

John noted the swelling shape of Sherlock’s prick beneath his pyjama bottoms.  Growing steadily more defined as he fondled Sherlock’s belly button.  He felt his own prick swell and insinuate itself through the right leg hole of his boxer briefs, down the leg of his trousers to lie warm in the hollow of his thigh.

‘I’m getting so hard,’ said Sherlock.  He’d always enjoyed dirty talk.  Before they’d initiated the flat share, when he’d warned John of his disagreeable habits, he’d said to John that sometimes he didn’t talk for days on end.  But the truth was that Sherlock was rarely silent.  He loved to articulate.  And to articulate during sex seemed to him essential.  It was what made it real.  It announced to the universe every debouched act, and he just knew that the universe was taking notes.

‘Me too,’ said John.  It was simpler for him.  He found things sexy, so he did them.  He found dirty talk sexy, so he talked.

Sherlock’s dirty talk was calculated and clever.  It wasn’t D.H. Lawrence, but it was thought through – constructed with consideration of what would titillate John the most, titillate _Sherlock_ the most, reach inside both of them and tickle the parts of them that were the most sensitive – electrify them.

‘I can’t believe how big my belly is.  Oh.  God.  Look at it.  I think you could rub it now, if you wanted.  I think I could stand to have it touched.’

John groaned low in his throat and spread out his circumference of touch to encompass the circle of flesh a few inches from the axis of Sherlock’s belly button.  He stroked in a circle.  Sherlock purred.  John rubbed it with the flat of his hand.

‘Such a big belly,’ John whispered.

‘Oh yes,’ said Sherlock.  ‘From where I’m sitting, looking down at it, it looks… enormous.  It feels like… it feels like a balloon filled with thick liquid.  Stretched so tight.  Oh – John.  Rub it for me.  It might pop.’

‘Sherlock….’

‘At the very least, my belly button is going to pop.  It has to.  The pressure there is…  Imagine that, John.  Imagine… my little fleshy belly button… tucked inside now, but oh… popping out, like a cork out of a champagne bottle.  It would feel so good.  Suck a relief.’

‘I’m going to come in my pants,’ said John, aroused beyond embarrassment.  His hand convulsed on Sherlock’s stomach, and he doubled over slightly, curled in on himself as the friction of his boxers against his cock abraded his glans and brought him off, suddenly and powerfully, coaxing his prick to spill one, two, three, four pulses of guilty warm semen down his trouser leg and onto his thigh, soaking into his trousers.

He was still convulsing, shivering with pleasure when he saw Sherlock looking at him pointedly, desperately, indicating with his eyes that John should touch his prick without delay.

With a trembling hand John pulled down Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms to reveal Sherlock’s hard cock, tumescent and shiny as his belly.  He wrapped his hand around it and frigged him quickly, spreading the pre-come along the length of the shaft, watching Sherlock close his eyes and spread his hands out over the sides of his own belly, cradling it in his hands, working the pads of his fingers back and forth over the tight flesh to stimulate himself as John stimulated him, the head of Sherlock’s prick first peeping out from the foreskin and then standing out swollen and pink, then flushing a colour close to crimson and engorging even more, weeping a string of pre come so copious it dangled heavily from the slit of Sherlock’s prick down over John’s thumb, towards the carpet.  The sounds Sherlock made grew more urgent, more abandoned – his face twisted in an almost comical paroxysm of pain-pleasure, his mouth open wide and his eyebrows raised, and then his prick spat strings of semen over John’s face, and John let them land where they fell across his nose and cheek.  Didn’t even wipe them away as Sherlock opened his eyes.  Looked down on him like he was the most amazing creature in the world.  He looked up at Sherlock with a similar expression.

There were all sorts of complex psychological motivations for this sexual activity, John knew.  He briefly imagined trying to explain it to his psychiatrist.  Imagined her eyebrows raising, and then her gentle, patronising monologue about healthy exploration of unconventional urges.  Pictured her discreetly scribbling on her pad with predictable assumptions about his mental state.

Then he realised, he didn’t care in the least.  And Sherlock certainly didn’t.  Often things were more complicated than they seemed.  Often they required thought and contemplation and analysis to unravel their mystery.  But sometimes, they didn’t. 

Sometimes, they were just brilliant fucking fun.      


End file.
